


Thanksgivukkah AU

by BlueOranda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueOranda/pseuds/BlueOranda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WIP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgivukkah AU

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trapped with relatives for 10 days now so I thought I'd try writing a fic. This may be a fail boat. I make no guarantees.

John stared at the text, cursor blinking next to his words. He sighed, locked his laptop screen and decided to make another cup of tea. Walking to the nearby break room, he tried to not think about his writing, or lack of. He had picked up the extra shifts thinking it would be good chance to work on his book. Instead, he had spent the last three hours staring at his laptop screen, unable to relax. There was an aching soreness about his left hip, no doubt brought on by his restless night on the air mattress. When John's mother and step-father had announced they were spending the night in his apartment on their way through town, he had been happy to put them up. When they had brought his sister over for a 'family dinner', he had smiled and brought out another folding chair. And when the ensuing snow storm had knocked out the electricity in his sister's apartment and postponed his parent's travel plans, John called his manager and informed her that he would be working double shifts for the rest of the week. 

Stretching out his back as he waited for the microwave to heat up his mug of water, John could just imagine the scene currently taking place in living room. His mother would be going on about how her friends' children had careers and families, his sister would be ignoring all statements with the grim determination of a person pretending to watch television, and his step-father… his step-father would inevitably make the wrong comment. The resulting yelling match would conclude by the time John returned home, the only residue being a chilly silence that he would then have to sit through until everyone had gone to bed, allowing him to move the folding table and chairs out of the way and finally inflate his air mattress.

The microwave beeped and John ruthlessly pushed thoughts of his family out of his mind. At some point, they would be gone. His sister would return to her place across town, and his parents would be on the road going somewhere. The details were irrelevant, his deadline was approaching, and the pressure was slowly mounting. He grabbed his mug, dropped in a tea bag, and headed back to his desk at the front of the building.

Working at the storage facility was ideal for his writing. Nearly all the units were rented out, and people rarely came by to access their things. The busiest times for the business were when school terms started and ended, usually consisting of students and families who were moving houses during the break. Even during peak times, there wasn't much work for employees. Access was controlled electronically, people managed their individual locks, and a security firm monitored the alarms. John's main job duties were providing tours to potential customers, keeping track of the moving carts and trollies, and keeping an occasional eye on the people coming in and out to make sure nothing overly suspicious was going on.

It was this job that had allowed John to complete his first book.

He had been working incredible hours at his old job, gaining the respect and recognition of his colleagues, the appreciation of his clients, and he had been miserable. His counselor had recommended that he start keeping a journal as a way of working through his emotions. This advice had started John on his path to authorship. When John had first started journaling, it had been a daily exercise in futility; minutes upon minutes of typing and erasing single sentences. His counselor had finally suggested that John start small, writing anything as long as it got him used to the regularity of typing out words. Those first small writings had been as the pebbles of an oncoming avalanche. Writing had become a refuge from his job and his routine life. John created an imaginary world, populated with snapshots from his experiences. He found himself looking forward to the hour between his arrival at home and getting ready for bed, in which he would choke down a quick meal as he filled page upon page with his thoughts.

Writing provided him with a brief respite from the grey blandness of his days. For a while John would entertain himself thinking of what he might write that evening. And slowly, a hope began to grow within him. A dream that perhaps he could change his life, and spend his days writing. He did not share this idea with his counselor, deciding that if he wanted to engage in escapist fantasies, that was his business. Writing cleared his mind, and left him feeling alive and engaged. At least, until he went into work. Within two hours at the practice, his mood would have inevitably shifted to a depressed fugue that he was constantly masking with a plastic smile.

He had never wanted to be a doctor, a fact that John had stopped sharing with people after the first few shocked reactions. Most people seemed to want to hear that people became doctors for altruistic reasons, that they wanted to save lives and help others. Not so for John. He had become a doctor because his family had been poor. There hadn't been enough money to send both him and his sister to school. When he had seen the recruitment information for the military medical program, the free education and training, he had known. This would be the way to for him to help his family. He could make his own future, and give Harriet a chance at one as well, without burdening his parents. He hadn't hated medicine or the practice of it then, he had been indifferent. John knew he was smart, strong, and wasn't squeamish. He knew he could do it, and he had.

He became a doctor, he served on active duty, then the incident had occurred, followed by a medical discharge. As a veteran, as a civilian, life was different now. He hated working at the practice, his counselor kept insisting that things would not get better unless he could work through his "feelings", and the only thing that made him "feel" remotely like a real person was his writing. John realized he had nothing left to lose. He didn't owe his family anything; he'd established a career on his own and given his sister a chance at one. He refused to spend the rest of his days being miserable. So John began to plan. He researched the process of getting an editor, of getting published. He searched through his writings, put together a proposal for a novel, and began sending it out. It took months, and finally, against all odds, John received a response.

Someone was interested in publishing his book.

It was great news! It was terrible news! John was one step closer to achieving his dream and now he had to commit. Working at the practice would not give him the time to put together a novel, not properly. John knew he wouldn't be able to go halfway on this endeavor; it had to be all or nothing. So he had done it. He gave notice at work, he went through his finances to see what he could afford in living costs, and he had done it.

Sitting back down at his desk, John smirked at the memory of his naiveté. He hadn't really thought about what his life would be like when he had chosen to pursue writing, but he was fairly sure that hiding from his family by working the evening shift at a storage rental facility wouldn't have been close to anything he would have imagined. John carefully placed the mug down near his laptop, and got ready to work. Scanning the security monitors, he confirmed that no one had entered the facility while he had been in the break room. John unlocked his laptop and prepared to describe the continuing adventures of Ormond Sacker.

It wasn't going well. When John had written the first novel, he hadn't really planned for a second. He now found himself in the odd position of trying to create a problem for his beloved character. John found himself typing a sentence or two, and then deleting it. The words did not feel authentic, and he hated them. A headache was beginning to form at his temples and John decided to take a break.

He began walking the outer loop of the storage facility. There was only one floor, with various sized units. The sizes ranged from what were described as closet-sized to bedroom-sized, and John was always amazed by what people decided was worth storing. He did not have the keys to any of the rented spaces and only saw the contents when they were being moved in or out. On a few occasions, he and the other employees had participated in property "evictions" when the customers defaulted on the rent. After looking through the abandoned property, the owner allowed employees to have their pick before selling off the remaining goods. John never liked taking anything though. It had seemed too close to theft, even though the owners had lost their legal rights to the items.

Slowly wandering through the hallways, John's thoughts continued to drift to the possible contents of the units as he walked by them. As he completed his tour of the outer set of units, John decided to keep going. The walk was allowing John to stretch the soreness from his hips, and he began to roll his shoulders only just realizing how tense they had been. Raising one hand to rub at his neck, he began walking up and down the aisles that made up most of the facility. Again he turned his mind to the potential problems of the fictional Osmond. 

The first book had ended with Osmond successfully gaining the favor of the woman that he loved. A treasure hunter by trade, Osmond Sacker traveled the globe, seeking out mysterious and priceless artifacts. After sustaining injuries while navigating across a war-torn region, Osmond had been rescued by a lovely medic who had nursed him back to health. The book had concluded with Osmond successfully proposing and John had been particularly proud of the ending. It pleased him to think that at least one person he knew, even a fictional one of his own creation, was happy. 

Apparently the reading public had agreed. His debut novel had shot up the bestseller list, where it had remained for eight weeks before falling off. And now his publishers wanted another Osmond Sacker book. John was hardly in a position to refuse. Though his first book had sold heavily for the eight weeks while it was on the bestseller list, sales had dropped off quickly. After all the percentages were calculated and the advance had been paid back, John had wound up with a much smaller sum of money than anticipated. 

But it hadn’t been about the money, John reflected. It had been about changing his life for the better. And even though he now spent most of his time staring at a laptop screen, at least he was doing it gladly.

These were thoughts going through John’s head as his foot came down and slipped. John flailed and failed to regain his footing, instead crashing onto the concrete, rear and back hitting, thankfully sparing his head the majority of impact. John rolled to his side, quickly evaluating the pain and scanning the area.

The pain was superficial; no real injuries were to be had though there was probably going to be a large bruise by his tailbone. John felt down his pant leg and his hand came away sticky, and wet. The substance was clear and had apparently formed the puddle that caused his fall. Standing up, John took a closer look and saw that the liquid was leaking from underneath the door of one of the storage units. He sighed, noted the unit number, and headed for the break room to wash his hands and find the orange warning cones. Whatever the stuff was, it washed off easily and didn’t seem to be toxic. Which was good, as storing hazardous materials would be a violation of the rental agreement, and John really didn’t want to be making a call to emergency services. 

Having set out warning cones in case others came by, John went back to the desk to pull up the renter information for the leaking unit. The space was rented by one “Holmes, Sherlock” with only a cell number provided for contact. John sighed again and called his manager. Mrs. Hudson took the news in stride; she had been the sole owner and manager of the storage facility ever since the death of her husband. Leaking units, while unwelcome, were certainly not unheard of. John promised to make sure the situation would be handled, if not by him, then by the next shift worker until Mrs. Hudson came in the morning.

He then called the number for the renter, “Holmes, Sherlock”. The phone rang, and rang, and rang. As John prepared himself to leave a voicemail, someone answered with growled “What"? John paused, momentarily startled, only to hear the call disconnect. Staring at the screen in shock, John confirmed the disconnect and then jabbed at the redial. The phone had only gotten half-way through the initial ring, when the call was answered with an even deeper growled “WHAT"? John answered, possibly a little brusquer than usual, “Is this Mr. Holmes”?

The ensuing conversation, if it could be called that, was brief and to the point. John requested that Mr. Holmes come down to the facility and clean up his mess before the entire unit was reported to the police as being in violation of the rental agreement. Mr. Holmes, once having confirmed his name, hung up, again. 

John sighed and scrubbed at his face. He took a swig of his now cold tea, shuddered, and contemplated his next steps. He had little over four hours left on his shift, a slowly leaking rental unit, and zero progress towards meeting the deadline for his book. Shaking his head, John trudged back to the break room to make another cup of tea. Staring at the mug while it slowly rotated in the microwave, John tried taking deep breaths. He didn't usually have issues interacting with people.

Sitting back at his desk, a fresh cup of tea in hand, he returned to his writing. He knew that Osmond needed something to push him into this next adventure. With a new fiancée, what could possibly entice a man to go back to the danger-filled world of uncovering rare artifacts and competing against shady dealers? What more could there be to Osmond’s life? He had his work and his adventures. Perhaps a pet?

John hummed, his mouth scrunching up as he tried to imagine Osmond with a pet. Something that he could take with him during the day, that he could talk to in the evening, a companion to help pass the time. Pulling up a browser, he began searching through images of pets, trying to get a feeling for what he might write about. 

A snort broke John’s concentration. He glanced up to see a dark-haired man striding past the desk towards the storage units. “Excuse me”, John called out, “are you here for unit 36”? The stranger did not respond, nor did he slow down. John caught up with the him at the start of the aisle, and as he suspected, the man, Sherlock Holmes as it must be, went directly to unit 36, pulling out a set of keys as he approached the lock. 

John tried again, “Mr. Holmes? I talked to you on the phone earlier. Whatever is causing this mess, you must…” Mr. Holmes had pulled open the sliding barrier to his unit. John had seen many oddities in his time at the facility but none had captured his attention as suddenly as the eclectic jumble suddenly illuminated by the unit’s fluorescent light. 

There was a collection of assorted furniture: a few dusty tables, a stuffed armchair, and a couple of faded lamps. Half the unit was filled with neatly packaged boxes, though none were labeled. There was also a microscope, a collection of flasks, and enough science lab equipment to make any junior chemistry student proud. A taxidermied squirrel, a large buffalo head trophy meant to be mounted on a wall, and lastly, a human skull seated neatly on the armchair rounded out the visible collection. 

Its eye sockets appeared to look directly at John. He gaped at it for a moment, and then turned to level a glare at Mr. Holmes. Who was smiling at him, and not in a friendly way. John’s face heated, and meeting Mr. Holmes’ pale eyes stated, “I expect the mess on the floor to be cleaned up and whatever it is that you are doing in there, needs to stop”. He waved his hand at the table housing the chemistry kit; one of the large flasks was slowly oozing fluid onto the table top, from which it was slowly puddling on to the floor.

John stopped speaking and kept his eyes on Mr. Holmes, who said nothing. Mr. Holmes swept his gaze down John’s fuzzy beige sweater, turned his nose up at the wrinkled pants and met his eyes again. “Fine”, said Mr. Holmes and proceeded to turn around and step into his unit, inspecting the contents of the leaking flask. John waited a few more seconds and when nothing more was said, shook his head and went back to his desk. 

A dog he decided. Osmond needed a dog. 

The rest of his shift went by quickly. Once he introduced a dog into Osmond’s life, the words kept flowing. Though John couldn’t decide on quite how to get the adventure started, his character had grown. It was a good start, John decided, talking a moment to stretch. 

He glanced over at the monitors and froze. Mr. Holmes was lying prone on the floor outside unit 36. John pushed away from the desk and ran down the aisle. He skidded to a halt besides the still figure and knelt down, checking for a pulse and breathing. Finding both, John scanned his face and body for obvious injuries. Finding none, he faced Mr. Holmes directly and called, “Mr Holmes… Sherlock. Sherlock?”

There was no response. John looked around in case someone had come in and could assist; finding no one, he pulled out his cell phone and began to enter the number for emergency services. Just as he was about to dial, Sherlock Holmes groaned and began to move. John put his phone down and grasped the man by the shoulders, “Hold still”, he ordered, “you’ve had an accident”. 

\---

As John stretched out on his air mattress, hours later, he couldn’t help a small chuckle at how the night had turned out. When he had attempted to help Sherlock off the floor, the man had slapped at his hands. Worried that the man was disoriented, John had taken a step back and adopted a soothing tone as he began to explain the situation. The incensed look that Sherlock gave him was nothing compared to the scathing diatribe that ensued. 

Sherlock had insulted his intelligence, work ethic, and his job. He then expanded the scope of his outrage to include the storage facility and owner for their slovenly policies and work practices. When Sherlock paused to inhale, John had calmly stood up, informed Sherlock that as he was clearly not injured in any way, he couldn't possibly require any further assistance, and then walked off. “Mind the orange cones, there’s been a spill”, had been John’s parting words as he marched back to his desk. 

John had sat down and decided to ignore any further activity in the vicinity of unit 36. "To hell with a dog", he thought. What his book needed, what Osmond needed, was a nemesis. Inspiration carried him for the next few hours, and when he finally took a moment to pause, he noticed he was near the end of his shift. Shaking out his wrists, he glanced over at the monitors. There was no movement in the facility, and John realized that he'd better check on the spill before leaving. 

John walked down the aisle towards unit 36, and he could see that the door was still open. The orange cones had been pushed aside and the floor appeared clean. There was no other sign of the antagonistic renter. John glanced around as he gathered up the cones and seeing no one, walked back to the break room. After storing the cones, he made it back to the desk just as Andy arrived for the night shift. John briefly filled him in on the events of the evening and mentioned that the renter for unit 36 was probably still around. Andy had merely grunted as he shoved John's laptop aside to plug in his own, and John decided that any warnings were probably undeserved. He packed up his laptop, grabbed his coat, and walked out the front doors.

Pulling his hood up against the chill, John began walking to the parking area on the side of the building. Hoping that his family might have gone to sleep early for once, he trudged towards his car. It was one of the few things he had kept from his previous life. John had leapt at the chance to get rid of the trappings of his "successful" career. He had sold his house and nearly all his furnishings, most of which would not have fit in his new apartment. He still enjoyed driving though; it was one of the more relaxing times of his day when he could sit in the silence of his vehicle and think about his writing. 

The air was crisp and a few snowflakes were falling, remnants from the storm that had occurred. The moon was out, giving everything a surreal glow. Inspired by the peaceful scene, John wondered if he could somehow fit this moment into his storyline. "What do you mean, No!?", John startled at the harsh tone. Peering around, he saw a tall form striding back and forth at the side of the building, cell phone in hand. Apparently, John wasn't the only person Sherlock had a problem with.

Snippets of agitation and sounds of disbelief accompanied John to his car. Evidently, Sherlock was having car trouble and a taxi wasn't going to be available in a satisfactory time frame. John was unsurprised that Sherlock didn't seem to have any friends to call, and then immediately felt ashamed for bring so critical. John paused at his car door, hearing the frustrated pacing of Sherlock behind him and sighed. He turned and walked over to Sherlock. As the Sherlock caught sight of him, he shoved the phone in his pocket and snapped out, "No, I don't want your help. What makes you think I need anything from you!?"

John stilled, stunned at how he hadn't even gotten a chance to say anything. A warmth prickled up his cheeks and John exclaimed, "Amazing. I cannot believe you!" and with that, he turned around and went back to his car. He tossed his bag in, snapped on his seat belt, and began navigating out of the parking area. Taking deep breaths, John tried to calm down. The roads were still icy and he was a cautious driver. 

As he pulled away from the facility, Sherlock appeared, waving his arms frantically. Against his better judgement, John hit the brakes. He stared out his window at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back. John let up on the brakes, moving the car forward and Sherlock jolted into action, waving his arms again and yelling. 

It turned out to be an apology, of sorts, combined with a awkwardly phrased request for a ride home. John said nothing and unlocked the passenger door. The rest of the trip was uneventful, both men sitting in silence, with occasional muttered directions from Sherlock. John pulled up alongside an older apartment building, and turned to Sherlock. Only to find him already unlocking his door and exiting the car. John stared after the dark figure stalking off in the darkness, and then with a shake of his head, turned the car around to go home. 

Now, laying there on his airbed, John completed his review of events. Of course Sherlock wouldn't express thanks for the ride, John had yet to hear him utter a civil sentence. "What a character", thought John, and with that, he went to sleep.


End file.
